


Blue Eye Sky

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Series: Highway Cloudbusting [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Homophobia, M/M, Sexual Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I want to hold your hand."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Eye Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ October 10, 2010. 
> 
> So here's the "deleted scene" I mentioned to a few people in comments before, that was originally going to be in Starswept, but ended up not fitting. So here it is, and I have absolutely no plans to write any more for this universe.

  
“This is ridiculous. It’s never going to get here,” England muttered to himself as they waited for the bus, staring down the street and trying to pinpoint exactly where the transportation system had failed him so epically. He stared moodily in the opposite direction, as if expecting to just glare the bus into existence.   
  
America rocked back and forth on his heels beside England, wetting his dry lips and nearly losing his footing and rolling his ankle. Not that cool, or smooth. But thankfully England was too busy cursing America’s transportation system into the pits of hell to notice America’s kind-of-not-that-cool almost slip. “Well, it’s only a few blocks to the subway. Wanna walk?”  
  
England sighed and gave America a side-long look before shaking his head and running his fingers through his hair. The gesture was oddly endearing, even though countless people had done it countless times. America suspected it was because it was England, and anything England did seemed surprisingly elegant and graceful. England did the hair tugging for a moment before he nodded. “Might as well. I suppose.”  
  
And so they set off, leaving the bus stop behind and walking beside one another. They were close enough together that America could almost feel the warmth radiating off England, but far enough away that they weren’t actually touching at all. Just the thought of touching England kind of sent his heart skyrocketing into his throat, anyway, so maybe it was just as well.   
  
They’d made it back to New York with no trouble, if not for an awkward, but understanding silence. It was somehow something that worked between them—a weird combination of uncomfortable and comfortable. Their trip back to New York had been just like that. The only way to describe it had been kind of quiet and awkward. They’d driven in silence for most of the trip, and occasionally switching who was driving. After they’d woken up, cramped together and smelling horribly, they’d driven away from the campsite they’d spent the night in. The rain had passed, and the world seemed renewed and fresh. America had been happy to roll the window down and breathe in the fresh air—it sure beat the B.O. that England claimed wasn’t that bad.   
  
The ride in the truck consisted of America tapping the steering wheel and humming along with the radio once they got a signal, and England staring out the window. Occasionally England would make a comment on the changing landscape and scenery, but mostly he just listened to America singing along to the radio, alternating between turning it up and turning it down. When they’d arrived back to New York, England had made some kind of comment about finding his hotel and contacting his boss, and America had shyly asked him to stay in America’s apartment. And America hated to act shyly, but after an incredibly long uncomfortable silence in which America contemplated laughing and pretending it was a joke, England had quietly agreed.   
  
It hadn’t been easy. The first night had nearly resulted in another almost break-up when Canada had nearly smashed the door down demanding to know what was wrong with America. Something about how it was rude to not call back and return his calls after America’d left Canada “three thousand million” (Canada’s words) phone messages. And then Canada’d gotten huffy when America said he hadn’t called him _that_ many times. In any case, the near smashing down of the door nearly resulted in Canada finding out in the worst way possible that England and America were together, and with a few shouted demands at each other to get their pants on before the lock went flying off the door, there’d been a tense moment when England had probably contemplated packing his things and never looking back.  
  
But it hadn’t come to that. They shouldn’t have worked, really. They were impossible together, even worse when they weren’t together (and England apparently was pining endlessly for America—who knew?). In a lot of ways, they shouldn’t ever work. But somehow, they also did. Slowly, they were getting there. He didn’t like to think of the alternate of making it work, because being without England—despite being without England for hundreds of years—seemed completely impossible now. He wanted England to always be there. But England’s plane was that night, and then America wouldn’t see England for at least two months. America didn’t like to think about all that too much, because he hated to feel unhappy or melancholy. And even more so he didn’t want to feel like he was growing dependent on England. Because he wasn’t. Just because he’d grown used to having England around the last few weeks—realizing he loved him, for that matter—didn’t mean that he couldn’t handle two months.   
  
So he didn’t think about it. The plane wasn’t until tomorrow, and it wouldn’t suit America to act sad in the last few hours he had left with England until two months from then.   
  
They were currently making their way back to England’s hotel, to pick up the last few things he’d need to pack before America drove England to the airport.   
  
The sky was a nice color, America mused, but stopped looking at the sky after he almost tripped over a garbage can. England was, as always, off in his own head, thinking about things he never shared with America. America whistled absently as they walked in silence, threading between people heading in the opposite direction, but always finding their way next to each other again, so close at times that their elbows bumped.  
  
America looked down at the space between them.  
  
 _I want to hold his hand._  
  
The thought came to him so quickly that he was completely unprepared for it. He jerked his attention away from England’s hand and stared straight ahead, hating himself when his cheeks turned just the slightest shade of pink. He couldn’t help it, and especially since the thought was so _ridiculous._ Yeah, maybe he’d thought it occasionally, and maybe he actually did hold England’s hands sometimes—when in private, watching a movie and watching England’s shoulders shake as he pretended not to cry at the ending, or when he was inside England and grasping his shaking hands to let him know _it’s okay, it’ll always be okay, just stay with me._ But never in public. There were people all over, and in an instant they could all be looking at him, glaring at him, judging him—he was so tired of being hated for no reason, especially from his own people.   
  
“What is it that you were whistling?” England asked.  
  
America tilted his head, blinking in surprise to see England looking up at him.  
  
“Um.”  
  
England’s brow furrowed, and then he cracked that small, uneasy smile that never suited England’s face and yet was enough to send America’s heart aflutter. “You don’t know? You’re ridiculous.”   
  
“I forgot the name,” America said, and laughed. He started whistling again, slower, because it seemed England was enjoying it. And it seemed he really was, because his smile softened as he stared up at America, and for a second America completely forgot they were on the street because the look England was giving him was so strangely intimate. He could stare at England forever, and it seemed England wanted to keep watching him, too.   
  
But then England turned his attention back in front of them, eyes drifting to street signs. They reached the steps downward into the subway, and England fell in step behind America as they made their way underground. America drifted closer to him as they walked, and America paid for their fare.   
  
They stood on the platform, waiting. America began whistling again.  
  
“Do you like it?” he asked, after a pause, because they were quickly falling into that strange, uncomfortable silence again and America always had that inherent need to fill silence with words, even if the words were meaningless and useless. England always seemed to understand that, though. Maybe only a little.   
  
“It’s lovely,” England finally said.   
  
America grinned, beamed, felt stupidly pleased. “Thanks!”   
  
“Hm,” England hummed.   
  
America felt the flood of affection as they stood together behind he white line, waiting still. The air below the street was thick and hazy, and America wasn’t too keen on placing the smells. But it smelled better than some parts of New York during the summertime, at least.   
  
When the subway arrived, they waited silently inside it, sitting down and watching people flood on and flood off again. Nothing particularly note-worthy happened, which was kind of a shame because if something weird had happened, then at least he’d have something to talk about. Once on the subway, he’d run into a marching band and that was really fun. But today was a quiet day, filled with timid tourists wearing “I ♥ New York” t-shirts and looking warily at all strangers, as if every New Yorker were about to mug them.   
  
They reached their stop and retreated back up to the street. England’s hotel was in the distance, and together they walked.   
  
And the thought returned to America: _I want to hold his hand._  
  
He ignored the thought, his face coloring, as they reached England’s hotel. They rode the elevator up, and America sat patiently waiting for England to collect the rest of his things and put them away into his briefcase and suitcase.   
  
England sighed, and America looked over at him from where he sat on the bed.   
  
“Huh?” America asked.  
  
England looked up, and gave him that same lopsided smile. He shook his head. “This was a much longer vacation then I ever intended it. It’ll be nice to go home.”  
  
America frowned.  
  
England shook his head, obviously anticipating whatever it was America was going to say. “Not to say I didn’t enjoy myself. But… well.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“It was interesting,” England said, and then looked away, his cheeks turning red.  
  
Once again, America was left not exactly sure what England was thinking, and whether he was actually saying what he thought.  
  
So America stood up and strode over to England’s side and grasped his elbow. England looked up at him, eyebrows raised.   
  
“Two months is a long time,” America said, seriously.  
  
England studied his face, before his expression softened just slightly. “Yes,” he said, quietly. “It is, rather.”  
  
“I’ll…” America said, then looked down, his hand falling away. He cleared his throat, and scratched at the back of his neck and felt stupid for feeling so awkward and unsure. “I’ll miss you, ya know?”  
  
“… Ah,” England breathed, and though America’s eyes were on the floor, he felt England approached, and saw when England’s pretty, flawlessly buffed dress shoes came into his vision.  
  
And then England’s hand was touching his chin, and guiding his face so that they were meeting eye-to-eye.  
  
“I’ll miss you as well,” England said, without a trace of irony or embarrassment, though his eyes flickered in a way that suggested that his natural inclination was to turn his face away. But he did not, and held America’s eyes.  
  
America nodded, and England leaned in and kissed his cheek.   
  
“We don’t need to think about it right this moment,” England reminded gently, his breath breezing over his ear and America closed his eyes, absorbing the feel and warmth of having England so nearby, something to file away when England was gone and he only had the memories of the last few weeks to guide him (mostly bad memories, though, but the good memories were enough to overpower all the fuck ups).   
  
“Okay,” America said, and watched as England stepped away, going to snap up his briefcase. But America followed after him and grabbed his wrist. “England…”  
  
England let himself be tugged, let America drag him closer. He turned around to meet him, and so easily his arms slid around America’s shoulders, guiding his head down so that they were kissing and somehow England was always so good at guessing what America was thinking even before America thought it. And America let England kiss him so sweetly that he nearly forgot everything in that moment but the feel of England under his hands.   
  
And as quickly as it started, so quickly England slipped away and picked up his briefcase. America stooped down and grabbed his suitcase before England could do so.   
  
“Shall we?” England asked, inclining his head towards the door.  
  
America slumped a bit to kiss at England’s mouth one last time before leading the way to the door. “Yeah, yeah.”   
  
Outside on the street again, they headed in the direction they’d come from. England’s apartment wasn’t too far from America’s apartment, and not that it mattered because England’s bag was hardly heavy, even for someone who didn’t have ridiculous strength like America possessed. They walked along the streets, weaving their way between the other people some more. America almost started whistling, but the knowledge that England was leaving soon was suffocating all the joy in his chest, despite his earlier resolution to not let the melancholy set in.  
  
America sighed as they stopped at a crosswalk. England was off in his own mind again, thinking about something else, and not looking at America. America stared at him, rather blatantly. Cars whizzed by, pedestrians flooded around them, walking down the streets. America felt his face was hot, but didn’t care, because England was smiling and seemed almost at peace—and it was such a rare opportunity not to see England angry or sad or grumpy. And though America knew that England was sad to be leaving, he also knew England had to be happy. He’d been away from home for so long—and there was something really nice about going home, no matter what you were leaving behind. America couldn’t begrudge England for wanting to be back in his home and with his people.   
  
America swallowed a thick lump in his throat, and reached out his hand. He grabbed England’s.   
  
England startled, staring down at their hands and instinctively went to pull it away. America held on tight, looking down at his feet. He could tell England was staring at him.  
  
“What—”  
  
“Um,” America said, intelligently.   
  
“… We’re in public,” England reminded, knew of America’s insecurities. And as if America could forget where they were. He didn’t hear the nefarious whispers, didn’t see any cars screech to a halt to yell obscenities at him—that would have been ridiculous.   
  
The traffic light turned red and the cars came to a halt before the crosswalk (after a few stragglers whizzed by to beat traffic), and pedestrians began to cross the street. America almost let go of England’s hand, because he could see approaching pedestrians glance down at it before their eyes drifted away. America couldn’t immediately tell if there was judgment or not.   
  
But he did not let go of England’s hand, despite all his instincts telling him to let go and stop it, despite all the shame that kind of lodged in his throat and god America hated the shame the most.   
  
England stood still, and America tugged on his hand. “Come on, England.”  
  
“America…” England began, cautiously, his eyes on their joined hands.   
  
America bit his lip, and finally met England’s eyes. He smiled, and squeezed his hand. “Holding your hand means more to me than some stranger’s hate.”  
  
England stared at him, then lowered his gaze. America didn’t miss the slightly wobbly smile on England’s face, and with another flush of pleasure, America set out across the street, holding England’s hand tight, ignoring the way his heart raced. He was scared, eyeing the people they passed with a deep flush but an inner challenge to anyone who dared say anything about him, or especially England. But all that wasn’t important.   
  
All that wasn’t important, because one block later, England’s hand shifted so that their fingers threaded together, and that was the only thing in the world that mattered.


End file.
